Disbelief, humiliation, fury—countless emotions surged up at once, as though a five-flavor bottle had been overturned inside him, leaving a taste too complex for words.
But very quickly, every emotion within the near-Saint dead soul vanished.
At that moment, its heart became eerily like a pool of stagnant water, without the slightest ripple.
As a near-Saint, it looked down upon all living beings. This was not merely a matter of mindset; it was simply reality, as it ought to be.
But—
What did it take to become a near-Saint?
Talent, luck, opportunity—all were required, and the requirements were anything but low.
Yet there was another requirement, one of incomparable importance.
A calm heart, and an unyielding will.
A Taiyi might perhaps be piled up through medicinal pills, and a Daluo might perhaps be achieved through luck.
But the Saint Realm was different. None who could reach this step were fools, nor could they possibly have made it by relying on luck alone.
At the very least, none of the Saints after the great destruction of the Primordial World had attained their status through luck alone.
Mountains of corpses, seas of blood; a thousand hardships, ten thousand sufferings.
The instant it realized it might be defeated, the near-Saint dead soul instead calmed down. It shoved its lofty attitude deep into its heart and buried it.
It spread its hands. Amid flickering rotten dark-green light, a weapon grew out from its palms.
Its appearance was strange. It had the length of a spear, yet resembled a whip. Its structure in particular made it seem less like a weapon than a spine—its own spine, to be precise. It had come from the dead body that had transformed into it, endured its aura of decay, and become a part of it. It had been